


still the riddle lies

by monograph



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Communication, Cuddling & Snuggling, Elements of Horror, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gothic, Gothic Elements, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Magical Realism, Miscommunication, Mystery, Rain, Storms, general weirdness, it is soft too though, mentions of death and murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24441595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monograph/pseuds/monograph
Summary: Amidst a terrible storm, Jisung just wants to kiss Minho. But Minho is acting strange and there is a murderer on the loose.Jisung investigates.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 12
Kudos: 62





	still the riddle lies

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a sleep deprived haze because the image of a sprawling, old house being lashed by a storm wouldn't leave me. Plus, I really, really love gothic horror and mysteries. And Stray Kids. So yeah, it makes sense. Kinda?
> 
> Title is from Emily Dickinson's 'The Secret'
> 
> Thanks to K for looking through this!

**Prologue**

“They won’t let me go to the condolence meet,” Minho says.

“There’s no reason for you to be there, hyung.” Changbin’s knife saws the meat. “They’ll start asking questions and then we’ll have a headache.” The stained windows that he is sitting in front of reflects pinpoints of light. They seem to glare in reproach.

Minho’s eyes are transfixed on Changbin’s plate. Jisung watches sweat bead on his forehead. “Hyung,” he calls. Minho’s trance shatters right in front of his eyes. “You need to keep your identity a secret.”

The wooden chairs announce every move that their occupants make. Their creaks and groans drown out the noise of the cutlery. Felix shakes his head.

“Offering respect to the dead is the bare minimum.” Minho glares at Jisung, but his voice is quiet. “I watched them die.”

“I think it would be more respectful if people didn’t know that you watched their loved ones die,” Changbin says.

Minho leaves the table.

───────

_(i)_

On his way to the third floor, Jisung sees Minho leaning against the doorframe of the library. He changes track and walks toward him, bare feet squeaking against the wooden floor.

Minho’s eyes are trained on Jisung the entire time, but Jisung looks hither, tither, everywhere but at him. The hallway is a hushed spectator waiting for a familiar scene to commence. Jisung wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t.

The moment Jisung reaches the door, Minho is dragging him inside. Minho nudges him to the sofa as he closes the door, locks it. The sofa-cum-bed has been readied with blankets and pillows. Jisung plops down and focuses on the rasp of Minho’s footsteps on the carpet.

“Did you take your medication?” he asks. The coffee table has a glass of water and the rumpled foil of a strip of tablets. There’s a letter knife, a couple of small rocks and a red leaf on the table. Jisung doesn’t surmise their meaning.

Minho nods. The frosted windows dampen the light of a cloudy day. Shadows run amok and they deepen the concavities on Minho’s face: his cheekbones, his eye socket, his philtrum. When he crawls into the sofa, his sweater pulls up against his back. He lays on his side, fights to keep his eyes open.

Jisung is always the little spoon. He doesn’t know how they figured it out, doesn’t know if Minho ever said, “I am the big spoon,” but Jisung always slots himself into the curve of Minho’s body. Maybe because Minho had once said, wild eyed and desperate, “I need to hold on to something.” Jisung is one of the things that Minho holds on to.

Minho’s arm is a vice against his waist, his knee a pressing weight on his hip. His breath is uneven and his frame shudders, imperceptibly. Jisung laces his fingers with Minho’s and says, “It’s ok, it’ll pass.”

Minho keens against his neck then falls silent. Jisung stares at the frosted windows and listens to the sound of the wind becoming enraged.

“Where were you going before you saw me?” Minho whispers.

The hair on Jisung’s arm pulls tight and rises. His neck is sensitive, and Minho’s breath ghosts over his skin like silk. “I was going to the third floor,” he says, “to watch the beginning of the storm.”

“Do you like storms?”

Jisung ponders the question. “As long it doesn’t destroy.” He shakes his head, “no actually, what is there to like? It inspires awe and terrible fear.”

“But, you like the rain,” Minho says, as if he is searching for something, grasping at something with his words.

Jisung is suddenly very sleepy. “You like the rain too,” is all he says.

_(ii)_

The headline says:

_Unnamed Seer identifies suspect in murder case. Suspect at large._

Minho enters the dining area and his face sours so much that Jisung folds and puts away the paper. Changbin’s chopsticks clink against his bowl and Felix’s teeth sink into his toast with triumphant crunches. Minho is a gale of wind, his mutterings cresting and falling as he traverses the length of the kitchen. The butter dish slips from his hand and falls on the floor.

Four pairs of eyes marvel at its audacity. Then the dish is defenestrated and Minho stalks out, fuming. Changbin and Felix turn to Jisung.

“Do you want your unsalted butter as well, Lix?” Jisung asks. He prickles with embarrassment, but grits his teeth.

“Yeah,” Felix says, unsure. “500 grams?”

“Maybe he just needs time,” Changbin says, answering his own unasked question.

Jisung unfolds the paper. A by-line peers at him: _Seers: Lunatics or Luminaries?_ “Yeah, probably,” he says, as unsure as Felix. But the weight of Jisung’s answer is much more than Felix’s.

_(iii)_

Jisung investigates the damage caused by the storm after breakfast. The sky is slate grey, but the leaves have lost their accumulated grime and they stand in defiance to the gloom. The trees drip rainwater down on Jisung as if mourning the loss of their branches. _Men in arms_ , Jisung thinks, _arms of the tree._

He studies the branches, their shattered twigs and the trampled leaves. Frowning, he looks around him and spots Minho bending down to pick up the butter dish. Minho turns bright red when he sees Jisung, but he strides over to him anyway. That’s Minho all over. Never hide.

“Sorry,” Minho mutters. The butter dish is slick and muddy and Minho is holding by pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. “I was an asshole.”

“Come to the store with me and I’ll forgive you,” Jisung says, knocking his shoulders against Minho’s to let him know that he is joking. Sometimes when he is stressed, Minho misses jokes. “We can get ice-cream on our way back.”

“Ice-cream after a storm?” Minho raises a brow. His red and white striped shirt is a pleasing contrast against the colours of the sky and the grass. A pop of colour. Life upon Life.

“Why not?” Jisung grins, “The storm is over after all.”

Minho glances at the sky. “Is it?” he asks.

“The first storm is the worst, then it is a little easier,” Jisung says, “because you get used to it.”

Minho doesn’t say anything.

_(iv)_

The supermarket is crowded. People mill about with laden carts and a sense of purpose.

“They’re preparing for a storm,” Minho murmurs behind Jisung.

Jisung sidesteps a lady, a toddler, an errant cart and opens the fridge. “You mean they’re freaking out for no reason and are going to wipe out the entire store,” he says. He picks up salted and unsalted butter and drops it into the basket.

“You know how flooded our area gets.” Minho studies the back of a yogurt cup. Jisung turns to him. “They’re scared of being trapped in their homes,” he says, raising his eyes from the expiry date and catching Jisung’s eye. He still looks tired, Jisung notes.

Jisung plucks the cups from his hands and puts them in the basket. Picks up a few more. “What does the weather report say?”

“Double, double, toil and trouble,” Minho says and then shakes his head with a smile. “Inclement weather is expected. Reporter: Lee Minho.”

Jisung is about to reply when a hush descends around them. People turn and crane their necks trying to figure out why they have fallen quiet. Everything takes on an ominous edge, from the flickering overhead light to the bare ramyeon shelf. Jisung’s feet carry him ahead, and he pauses when he sees the man who is centre of attention. A confused hum rises in the air, but there are some who are glaring at the man in distaste.

“Sir,” a weedy teenager says to the man, “I think you should leave?” the poor girl gulps when the man rounds on her. “For your safety,” she squeaks.

There is a moment of heavy, expectant silence. The kind of silence that reaches out a hand and nudges the stupid into action. The man, however, walks to the exit. The automatic doors seem to screech open at half their usual speed. The man steps outside.

Jisung jumps when he a hand falls on his shoulder. It is Minho, ashen and weary. He stumbles when someone knocks into him. People are trying and failing to saunter to the area where gossip is being dished out.

“What the fuck was that?” Jisung asks.

Minho’s lips tighten and he shakes his head.

_(v)_

Jisung notices Chan and Hyunjin leaning against their police car when they exit the supermarket’s grounds. He waves at them and Chan smiles at him while Hyunjin bounds to him and drags him into a hug.

“Long time, no see, Jisungie,” he yells into Jisung’s ears.

“This is why,” he grumbles and pushes him away. Hyunjin smells like smoke and flowery perfume. Jisung squints at him. “You look terrible though. You’re all puffy.”

Hyunjin pouts. “Late night shifts. I keep telling them that they shouldn’t put me on night shifts because it ruins my beauty sleep,” he waggles his brows. “But, the boss is pretty short-sighted.” He laughs but beneath the exhaustion and the self-depreciation, there are threads of hurt and frustration.

Jisung shifts uncomfortably. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Chan patting Minho in a way that only he gets away with because he is a hyung. “Come for lunch when your shift ends?” he turns to Hyunjin again.

Hyunjin rubs his forehead. “Not today. Got a double shift. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Right-O.”

In the ice-cream shop, Minho is quiet. The shop is empty, all the bright lights wasted on chairs and menus no one wants to see. Minho picks out chocolate chips from his cup and makes a ring around the lopsided, melting mound of his ice-cream.

“That man was the husband of the murder suspect.” He digs his spoon into the ice-cream, forcing it to melt faster.

“I see.” Jisung thinks of the newspaper at home. “So people already know.”

“They always do,” Minho frowns, “they always find out everything one way or another. What’s the point of keeping secrets?”

 _Unnamed Seer_. Minho’s eyes are burning with anger. _Never hide._ Jisung’s fingers are sticky and they leave a mark on the table-top. The grooves of his fingerprint sit innocuously as if they aren’t a key to his identity. “To prepare,” Jisung says, finally. Minho’s head dips, his hair shadow his brows. “To prepare for when the secret gets out.”

_(vi)_

“Pogo and Mango were insane today. They kept pulling at the leash and barking their heads off,” Changbin grumbles. The leashes clink in his hand.

“Must be the new scents the rain uncovered,” Felix says.

The room smells of sugar and chocolate. A light drizzle obscures the windows, but Jisung looks at them anyway. Drops of water race each other to the sill, and Jisung thinks of Pogo and Mango running in the forest, noses one with the earth.

Changbin huffs. “I am one man against two mastiffs. No one helps me in any way.”

“Hyunjin and Chan are coming for lunch tomorrow.” Jisung taps the newspaper against his knee. He smiles when Changbin brightens then smoothens his expression.

“Is that so?” All nonchalance, except for the creeping smile.

Jisung waggles his brows. “Planning on getting dicked down are you?”

Changbin leaves with the dignity of someone who can’t control a blush. Felix jeers at him and then shakes his head at Jisung. Jisung checks the newspaper again for the front-page. It is not lost among its bretheren. It has been taken out.

Felix thrusts two mugs under Jisung’s nose. “For you and hyung.”

Minho is not in the library, nor in his room. All the hallways and corners bleed a chill and mock the sound of Jisung’s footsteps. The paintings slumber, having lost their colour to the darkness. The smell of hot chocolate is a thick fog around his nose.

In the third floor, Minho is standing on the grand balcony, arms tucked to his sides. The awning bats the rain away from him. Jisung knocks on the glass, but the sound is lost to wind, water and the depth of Minho’s thoughts. He enters anyway and nudges Minho.

Minho startles, but he doesn’t seem surprised. He accepts the mug with a quiet, “thanks.” Jisung stares at him, unabashed. _We only look at each other when the other isn’t looking_ , he thinks. _We’re two dog-ears in the same book. Never on the same page._

After a moment, Minho says, “what do you think I would’ve been if…,” he points at himself, “if not for all this.”

Minho was an investment banker before all this. He would be an investment banker still if not for all this. Jisung doesn’t think this is what he wants to hear. Jisung thinks the question is, _what could I have been?_ “A teacher,” he says.

“A teacher?”

“Yeah,” Jisung stares at the cold, murky chocolate swirling in his mug. “You used to teach dance when you were a teenager, remember?”

Minho’s t-shirt bellows out with the wind. Faintly, he can head Pogo and Mango baying. “I haven’t danced in years,” he says, sounding awed.

“I know,” Jisung murmurs. “It is easy to forget.”

Minho’s eyes fill with tears, “But you remembered.”

Jisung takes the mug away from him and places it on a small table. By the time he turns around, Minho is already weeping along with the rain.

Jisung holds him. He wants to kiss him like he always does. But he doesn’t.

_(vii)_

Jisung’s t-shirt is damp at the chest and his heart aches. He carries the mugs downstairs.

“All lines are down,” Felix says. His eyes are knowing. “This is a bad storm.”

 _Double, double, toil and trouble._ Jisung’s heart rate quickens.

“How’s Minho hyung doing?” Felix asks.

There are two answers. He’s doing terribly, what do you expect? Or He’s doing fine, all things considered. Neither are the correct answers.

Jisung shrugs. “It isn’t like last time. Yet.”

Lightning flashes behind Felix. The dogs howl. He chews his lips. Thunder booms over the wind shrieking in horror. “Take care of Minho hyung.” He sighs when there’s another clap of thunder. “Storms freak out the dogs so much. I’ll go check on them. Maybe I’ll take a look at the fortifications, too.”

Jisung goes to the kitchen and puts the mugs on the counter. Minho had been embarrassed after his outburst and had abruptly run away. He wonders if he should seek out Minho or just let him be. Before he can decide, Felix slams into the house, dripping water all over the place.

“The fortifications are down! They’ve all unravelled!”

Jisung thinks of his arteries and ventricles freezing the flow of blood, the way he feels light-headed all of a sudden. Everything slowly, terribly makes sense. The strange marks he saw, Pogo and Mango barking and howling, Minho’s words in the ice-cream shop, his strange behaviour.

“Felix, did you read the news today?”

“What – Jisung! Didn’t you hear what I said!”

“Just tell me! Please – shit I think we’re in danger.”

“The unravelled wards are a danger!”

Jisung growls in frustration. “I think Minho hyung gave away his identity,” he says, “and I think the missing suspect found out and that they’re here.”

Felix’s mouth drops open. Lightning strikes and the lights in the room flicker. The roar of thunder is deafening, but Jisung’s heart beats faster with every moment they remain frozen. “We need to find hyung,” he says, tongue dry as chalk.

Felix snaps out of his daze. He moves to the kitchen counter and picks up two hefty knives. He passes one over to Jisung. The edge gleams, boasting its sharpness. Jisung’s reflection stares at him, wide-eyed and frightened.

“I’ll find Changbin hyung, you go fetch Minho hyung. We’ll go to the attic,” Felix says. A puddle of water surrounds his feet. “Let’s go,” he says.

Jisung moves like a marionette. His legs seem incapable of following a straight line, his hands are weighed down like lead. He can’t feel anything, but he can feel everything. Felix sheds his raincoat and the wet slide of the synthetic material is like a gunshot. Jisung’s stomach groans with every step. His breath is a shrill whistle.

Step, step, step. The storm rages around the house. It lashes against the bricks ferociously and when thwarted, bellows and blazes. Felix darts up the stairs. Jisung’s climbs the stairs and the wood screeches in protest of his speed. Oh, to be a sylph.

The second floor is barren. The tree outside the window twists and bends the light in the hallway into grotesque shapes. He knocks on Minho’s door. “Hyung.” His voice is watery, he turns the knob and the door opens. Inside there is only darkness.

Jisung closes the door. There’s a hot rush of anger through his veins. He stalks to the library, throws the door open. Empty. He investigates every corner with the desperate, choppy motions of a drowning man. His mind is blank, blank, blank. No thoughts. Nothing except for the heady, hurried firing of a tangle of neurons. _Third floor_ , they say. Jisung leaves.

His pulse thuds in his head. His chest. His neck. His ears. His fingertips. He can’t feel them, they’re numb. He enters the third floor, moves towards the grand balcony. And there –

Is a figure. Hazy, indistinguishable. His mind registers it, but he stares and he stares and he understands and it is terrible and there is a figure, a person, a man on the balcony and he screeches and his hand moves and he’s throwing the knife right at it and the

“Fuck! What the fuck!” The figure screams at the same time the knife clatters to the floor. The man swings around and Jisung screws his eyes shut against a sudden bright beam of light.

He stumbles, falls on the floor, his wrist painfully breaking his fall. He tries to get up and run, but then there’s a heavy fucking weight on top of him and he yells and he claws and he kicks and then Hyunjin is talking to him.

“Jisung, Jisung, it’s me. Hey, stop fighting, it’s just me. You’re safe, you’re ok. Stop fighting, Jisung, it’s me.”

Jisung stares at him. It is Hyunjin. Smoke and flowers. The familiar warmth of his body and his long hair, the same well-tailored grey uniform. “What?” he croaks.

“It’s ok,” Hyunjin smiles. “It’s just me.” He is still holding down Jisung’s arms.

Jisung’s mammalian reflexes relax and his nerves thread themselves together. Then, “Minho!” He arches off the floor, tries to scramble away, but Hyunjin shakes his head. “He’s fine. We’ll go when Chan hyung gives us the signal, ok?”

“What the fuck is happening?” Jisung is a frazzled lump of Jisung shaped bits and fragmented brain cells.

“Secret mission,” Hyunjin says grimly. He gets up and gives Jisung a hand.

Jisung stands of wobbly feet. He continues standing for long minutes with an empty, heavy head on his shoulders while Hyunjin goes back to the balcony. He seems to be looking for something. It occurs to Jisung that standing like a lamppost isn’t of much help. But then Minho enters the room.

“Hyunjin, the perp is-” he pauses at the threshold and freezes when he sees Jisung.

Jisung wants to kiss him. He wants to shake him for being an idiot. But, kisses are better so he strides up to Minho and kisses him.

_(viii)_

There is a murderer amongst them.

Felix steps forward and brandishes his knife.

All of them flinch.

“Explain yourselves or so help me god,” he growls.

“So-” Chan begins, but Felix interrupts him.

“First tell me why is there an unconscious man tied up in the living room?”

All of them are in the living room. Chan, Hyunjin and Minho sit on one side. Jisung is beside Minho. Each of them look more sheepish than the other one. “That man is the murder suspect,” Chan says, carefully. He is smiling nervously and he holds up his hands. “So what happened is that there was a murder a couple of days back. We called in Minho for a consult,” he says, inclining his head towards Minho.

Minho flinches. He looks terrible. His eyes are fever bright and his hands tremble in Jisung’s. There’s a pallor to his skin and exhaustion radiates from him in waves. Jisung squeezes his fingers and offers a smile. Minho returns a ghost of a smile.

“- so Minho had a vision that this man will attempt an escape and well, the original vision ended pretty badly, so our chief asked us to change some of the inciting incidents, so that the original outcome doesn’t occur.”

Changbin frowns. “You were bait?”

Minho shakes his head, then nods. “I don’t know what I was,” he raises his head. Jisung has a full view of his side-profile and his heart clenches when he notices how gaunt his cheeks are. “The outcome with the least amount of bloodshed occurred when I was his target and when you guys didn’t know, so yeah.”

“Our boss is a dick,” Hyunjin confides. “Wanted the case to be wrapped up in a day or two. That’s why all this happened.”

The conversation carries on, but Jisung stops listening. He watches Minho’s mouth move as he gives inputs, feels the cold tremble of his hand, listens to the slow, syrupy cadence of his voice as his eyes flutter.

The library beckons.

_(ix)_

Minho shakes for an hour after he takes the pill. Jisung holds him, makes soothing noises in his ears. The storm tires itself out and leaves a light rain behind, as if warning the Valley to not forget. The glow of the sat lamp catches on Minho’s ring.

“I thought you had revealed yourself,” Jisung murmurs a couple of minutes after Minho’s pained grip slackens. Only an inch, but there’s a flutter of relief that the pain is abating. “I’m sorry.”

Minho twists Jisung’s t-shirt between his fingers. “I wanted to warn you in some way. I know it was stupid, but it seemed so wrong to let this happen without you knowing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jisung didn’t know what he is sorry for. Sorry for doubting you. Sorry that this happened to you. Sorry that you are still suffering. He settles on, “I’m sorry for doubting you.”

Minho pecks his lips and leans away, but Jisung chases after his lips. He loses himself in the warmth and the sensation of their lips sliding together, breaking apart and coming back together. Jisung presses two short kisses and then dots Minho’s face with many more.

“Doubts are inevitable,” Minho scrunches his nose when Jisung kisses the tip of his nose, “because I can’t tell you a lot of things and that makes communication difficult.”

Jisung studies him, thinking of what he had thought earlier. _We’re two dog-ears in the same book._ “We need to have a system.”

“A system for?”

“A system for communicating. What to do when you can’t tell me something, what to do when I don’t understand what you’re saying and how to be on the same page,” Jisung says.

Minho’s eyes soften. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.” Jisung leans forward and brushes his nose against Minho’s. “Sleep now, hyung.”

_(x)_

Later, in the middle of the night, the electricity goes off.

Jisung wakes up and listens to the hushed creak of the house. It is still raining, he realises after a moment. The frosted windows are dark blurs. He shifts and the rustle of bedsheets echoes off the bookshelves.

“Jisungie?” Minho murmurs. “You awake?”

“Yeah, hyung. There’s no power.”

Minho hums but doesn’t reply.

Jisung peers into the unending darkness. “Hyung, why did you ask me if I liked the rain” He pauses. “The day before?”

Minho is silent for so long that Jisung believes he has fallen asleep. Just when Jisung is about to welcome Morpheus, Minho says, “I saw a vision of you kissing me on the grand balcony. It was raining and I knew it was going to storm.”

Jisung’s breath catches in his throat. “That’s how you knew what the weather would be like.”

Minho nods. “We would’ve kissed on the balcony, but then I-” a pause, “then I started crying.”

Jisung turns his head and looks at what he hopes is Minho’s head. “Tomorrow we’re kissing on the balcony.”

“Ok?”

“Yeah. And then we can have breakfast and then kiss again in front of Felix and Changbin and then walk the dogs and kiss and have lunch and…”

“And kiss,” Minho’s voice is amused. “I got it. An entire day of kissing.”

“Good.” Jisung squeezes Minho’s hand.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Minho says and squeezes back.

───────

There are, that resting, rise.  
Can I expound the skies?  
How still the riddle lies!

\- Emily Dickinson.

**Finish.**

**Author's Note:**

> This is very experimental for me, but I hope I did some justice to it. I am planning on making it a series, but let's see how it goes. 
> 
> Double, double, toil and trouble is from the witches' prophecy for Macbeth. Morpheus is the god of sleep and dreams. A Sylph is an air spirit. 
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts and comments <3\. Hit me up on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/trip_the_zipp) or [curious cat](https://curiouscat.qa/trip_the_zipp)


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